


A Feast Fit for a King (Newsietober Day 19)

by Freckles_From_Brooklyn



Series: Newsietober 2019 [10]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Modern Era, Race is a good cook, Tattoo artist!Spot, based on Newsies live, spot is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:24:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21098687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freckles_From_Brooklyn/pseuds/Freckles_From_Brooklyn
Summary: Spot comes home late after a very busy day to find an incredibly welcome surprise.





	A Feast Fit for a King (Newsietober Day 19)

Spot walked into the house that he shared with his husband, Race, and set his leather messenger bag down on the table. It was nearly 10 at night, and he’d just finished with his last client. He’d been booked all day with the worst, most annoying clients imaginable, and he was exhausted. He was starving too, as he hadn’t had time to get anything to eat. He loved his job, he really did, but it was days like these that made him wish he’d never become a tattoo artist. He heard the _ patpatpatpat _ sound of tiny paws on wood flooring as his small black cat, Brooklyn, came sprinting into the room. Spot caught her as she leapt, chirping happily, into his arms. 

“Hey, sweetie!” he cooed, kissing her head. “Where’s ya other dad, hmm?”

“Right here,” Race said, walking into the room. He kissed Spot, then moved behind him.

“What’re ya doin’, Racer?” Spot asked. 

“Blindfoldin’ ya,” Race replied. Spot sighed. 

“Race, _tesoro_, I’ve had a real long day,” he said. “I’m exhausted an’ starvin, an’ I love ya, but I really ain’t in the mood.” Race’s face appeared back in his field of vision, pouting.

“I know, baby, an’ I made somethin’ real special for ya, an’ I want ya to be surprised,” He said. “Please?” Spot sighed again. 

“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. He set Brooklyn on the ground and let Race tie a bandana over his eyes before he was led into another room and the blindfold was whipped off. 

“Ta daaaaaaa!” Race sang. Spot was speechless. On the table before him was a meal that could only be described as a feast. There were baked stuffed shells and roast beef, dishes of pasta, a platter of Caprese salad, and a basket of bread. In the center of the table was one of Race’s delicious caramel apple pies, made using a recipe that he’d gotten from Crutchie.

“D-d’you like it?” Race asked hesitantly. “You told me you were real tightly booked today, so I figured ya wouldn’t have a whole lotta time ta eat, so I made ya all your fave-mmph!” he was cut off as Spot dipped him down, catching his lips in a passionate, fiery kiss. 

“Racetrack Higgins, I fuckin’ _love _this,” Spot replied when they finally broke apart. “You are the best husband in fuckin’ history. Now let’s eat, I’m starvin’.” Race giggled. 

“Right,” he said, “Let’s eat.”


End file.
